


Letters from War

by Elri



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, I promise, M/M, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elri/pseuds/Elri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title and inspiration come from a song by Mark Schultz</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters from War

John stared at the letter in disbelief. He knew he was in shock and that as soon as that wore off he'd be panicking. He didn't know why, though, it's not like he hadn't been expecting something like this after god-knows-how-many people heard about their adventures via his blog. Sherlock worried him; John was the only person who could really handle Sherlock and make sure he took care of himself. Surely that couldn't be it though. Mycroft kept an eye on Sherlock, no matter how unwanted that eye might be, and Mrs. Hudson was here to fuss over him as well. So what was it then? John wasn't left much time to ponder this because at that moment, his flat mate came bursting into the room.   
"John, I need your computer." John pointed to his chair where the laptop sat but didn't protest, question, or look up from the letter on the table. Sherlock retrieved the laptop and sat down at the table with John. Once he had finished Sherlock closed the computer and looked over at his obviously shaken assistant. His hand was steady, but his face was drawn so stress not excitement was the cause. Body language indicated he was stunned which meant that whatever the letter he was staring at said was more emotionally distressing than something as simple as a phone bill, which John was known to worry about. There was an acceptance in John's eyes meaning that whatever it was John could do nothing about it and he knew it. That narrowed things down considerably. At that moment, John sat up and turned to Sherlock. Something in his countenance made it all click.  
"You've been called back to Afghanistan."   
John nodded, used to Sherlock reading his mind, "Yeah they uhm… they want me to help train the new recruits."  
"How long?"  
"Could be a few months, could be a year. You never know with these kinds of things."  
"When do you leave?"  
"A week."  
"I see." Sherlock brought his hands together in a steeple and sat, processing the information and the new feelings he now needed to suppress. "Should I hold your room for you?"  
"That…that would be great, actually. Are you sure you'll even notice? You do talk to me even when I'm not here, remember?" It was a weak attempt at a joke and they both knew it. John's nerves were starting to fray and the shock was wearing off. "Tea?"  
"Please." John stood and walked to the kitchen, limping slightly. Neither of them spoke as the tea brewed but when John sat down and passed Sherlock his cup he asked, "Why did they call you back?"  
"I told you, to train-"  
"No, John, why now? Why you? It doesn't make sense."  
"Actually, Sherlock, it does. Someone there must have read my blog and seen everything we've done together. They need people over there and they need people to train them and who better than an ex-soldier-"  
"Doctor." Sherlock corrected.  
John gave him an annoyed look before continuing, "Who has clearly retained his army training and put it to good use? They need me, Sherlock, I have to go. Besides, I don't have a choice in the matter anyway."  
Sherlock hesitated slightly before starting, "I'm sure we could get Mycroft to-"  
"No," This time it was John's turn to interrupt, "Neither of us can stand him and he'd just be even more insufferable if we had to call in a favor. Not only that, there's a part of me that wants to go." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John cut him off, "I'm sorry Sherlock, but there's nothing we can do, you'll just have to accept it."  
And they did. The week was spent with Sherlock doing his usual routine of boredom, experiments, and dashing off to solve cases, only this time it was without John who stayed at the flat, packing. John had gotten in touch with Molly and Greg to let them know and to ask that they take care of Sherlock. It was unnecessary, he knew they would even if he didn't ask, but he didn't want to feel like he was just abandoning Sherlock.   
Mrs. Hudson was of course distressed but she didn't let it worry John. "Don't worry about me dearie," She said, patting his arm reassuringly, "I'll just fuss over Sherlock for the both of us."  
They were all there to see him off. He felt awkward standing there in his uniform. They had never seen him in it before, it was a little disconcerting. His hair was shorter to. He'd decided to get it cut while he was still in London rather than wait for it to be chopped up by an army official with scissors. There were hugs, handshakes, and more than a few tears before John finally started to walk away.   
"John," He turned when he heard Sherlock calling his name, "Will you write?"  
The question made tears spring to John's eyes but he held them back, "Whenever I can, I promise."  
\------  
The letters started coming as the summer wore on. He spoke of the weather, and good friends that he'd made. Sherlock kept a special place for them in his mind palace. The one that stood out the most said:  
 _'I never really told you why I wanted to do this. I keep thinking about the families we've helped and the lives they lead. That's why I'm here today. But I want you to know, you are what I'm fighting for.'_  
It was the first of his letters from war.  
Then, late in December came a day Sherlock would never forget. He waited for the mail every day, always making sure he was home to get it. He was the first one to get the envelope from Afghanistan that did not have John's handwriting. Sherlock wasted no time in getting upstairs to his chair and opened the letter. He had already deduced that it was not an official letter but that it was from a younger officer, female judging by the handwriting and the few tear stains on the paper.  
 _'Dear Mr. Holmes.  
'I am so sorry. Captain Watson, he…I guess I should tell you the whole story. I was up on a hill, alone. Shots rang out and the bombs were exploding all over the place. That's when I saw him, he came back for me. He was captured, but that man set me free. That man was your John. He asked me to write to you and I told I would oh I swore. He is a hero, and no matter what anyone says I will not say 'was' until I see his body for myself and check the pulse.  
'Lieutenant Mary Morstan.'_  
Sherlock's hands shook as he read and re-read the letter. There was no way it was a fake. He barely registered how she had said 'your John.' The frigidness that he'd had before John had thawed since but now he was just numb. Sherlock moved about like a ghost. Anderson and Donovan didn't even bother him anymore and he got no pleasure from aggravating them or his brother on the few occasions Mycroft stopped by. The flat grew silent as he stopped experimenting or playing the violin at all hours of the night. Mrs. Hudson did the best she could but it was too much even for her.  
Two years passed.   
A car pulled up in front of 221b Baker St. Out stepped a man in a major's uniform…and a cane. He saluted as the car pulled away, and then turned to the familiar green-gray door. He pulled out his dog tags, and the key attached to them. Quietly he entered and climbed the 17 steps. The first thing he noticed was how quiet it was. _'Probably on a case.'_ He took off his hat and ran a hand through his now more-gray-than-blonde hair. He stepped into the flat and saw the blinking light on the answering machine. _'Well, it couldn't hurt to check, he never will.'_ He chuckled and hit the play button.  
 _John, I don't know if you'll ever get this but I…I'm on the rooftop of St. Bart's. This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note... I don't know what you've heard but there's something I need to tell you:_  
I'm a fake.   
The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly, in fact tell anyone who will listen to you... that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. Please, will you do this for me?  
Good-bye, John... Make it home, make it safe. What a father that you'll be someday.  
The message ended, the automated voice naming the time and a year old date but John didn't hear it.  
"Oh, god. Sherlock, no." He had heard about Moriarty's return but he'd never imagined…oh god. The cane fell from his hands and he staggered over to his chair to collapse into it. His mind was spinning, how could this be? Sherlock was smarter than Moriarty, there was no way that smug bastard could have won. Hours passed, but it felt like only a few seconds. John hadn't even noticed that the sun had gone down.  
Slowly, his hand reached for his service weapon. The safety was off, force of habit. John pressed the barrel to his forehead when he heard the door shut below him. 'No, Mrs. Hudson, don't, not now, please. Go back out, let someone else come find me.'  
"I'm so sorry." He whispered, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears.   
"John?" The door had been left open and a deep baritone voice came from the man that stood there.   
John opened his eyes, "Sherlock?" He breathed.  
"John, what…oh…" Sherlock trailed off as he saw the answering machine was no longer blinking. "John, listen to me"  
"No!" John sprang up from the chair and pointed the hand without the gun at Sherlock, "You're dead, you left a note, I just heard it."  
"That was a year ago. I just came back. I left that because, well that's what normal people do isn't it? Leave a note for their loved ones?"  
"Sherlock," John dropped the gun and stepped over to Sherlock. The consulting detective leaned down and pressed his lips against John's. John kissed him back and they wrapped their arms around each other. As Sherlock stood there holding John, his John, he could feel John's bones through the uniform, he was almost as gangly as Sherlock. All too soon, John broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Sherlock's, "That message…why did you leave it for me?"  
"I didn't think…I wasn't sure…I got Mary's letter."  
"Who?"  
"Mary Morstan, the lieutenant you saved before…"  
"I just came back. I was…there, for fourteen months. They needed a doctor, and not just for the soldiers. After I was 'returned' I spent the next ten months recovering and getting promoted before they sent me home."  
"Welcome home, John."


End file.
